


Nightmares Lived (It'll Be Okay)

by CrowleysRat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Angst, Bad Parent John Winchester, Bees, Bobby has a farm, Brief Homelessness, Cas is adopted by Bobby, Childhood Friendship, Dubious adoption process (I skimmed over it), Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Some Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lots of Angst, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Promises, Protective Dean, Sad Dean, Suicidal Thoughts, Sunsets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:40:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26135146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowleysRat/pseuds/CrowleysRat
Summary: He feels like he did when he was four, scared to close his eyes, to so much as blink because if he does, the monsters will come back, but this time the only monster is death, and it's so much more real and frightening than it was before.He knows death now, knows how silent and quick it is. Knows that it's a part of life, but not now -please not yet, he begs to a God he's not sure he believes in.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	Nightmares Lived (It'll Be Okay)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, in advance, but this idea wouldn't leave my head and before I knew it, I had this 10k monstrosity. 
> 
> This work in un-betaed, all mistakes are my own.

{Dean: 4}

"It'll be okay," Mom whispers as she rocks him back and forth. He's still shaking from his nightmare, heart beating faster than a hummingbird's, but he hones in on her words, feels the beat of her heart against her ear and it's steady, _so_ _steady._

He clings to her, unable to stop the nightmares when he closes his eyes, so instead he buries his nose in her soft shirt, inhaling the soft, warm scent of _lavender-softener-baby milk._

She's sweet and soothing, and Dean _knows_ she's exhausted - can tell by the droop of her eyelids and the bags under her eyes that she's fighting sleep - but she _stays_ with him, whispering kindly, voice tired and low but _there_ nonetheless. 

Dad comes by, grumbling sleepily, looking for his wife, but she sends him away with a quiet word and Dean's never been so grateful because he loves his dad - _he does -_ but right now he doesn't need to be reminded that he's weak, he just needs something, _anything_ to keep the night terrors away.

Sometime around four in the morning, when the sky is just barely beginning to lighten, and the birds are beginning to stir, he starts to believe her too, because after a while, after something is repeated so often, you have no choice but to believe it.

So he closes his eyes and breathes in the heady, unique scent of his mother, and forces himself to close his eyes and sleep because his mom said everything _will be okay_ and Dean _believes_ her.

{Dean:5}

"This is your baby brother." Dean peeks his head over the bundle of blue blankets his mom is cradling, feeling his nose wrinkle in distaste.

His _brother_ is tiny and red, his face all wrinkly like Ms. Murray's old pug, mouth pursed into a firm pout. He's ugly, Dean thinks. And _bald_.

Dean's not sure how to feel about that.

He'd come bouncing into the hospital room, lugging his backpack full of toys because he'd thought that his brother would be... bigger. Like him. He thought they'd get to run around with the big Tonka Truck his dad had bought him and that they'd pretend to be superheroes and play tag and stuff he'd seen the neighborhood kids play.

But, no. His brother's just an itty bitty baby - like the ones Jo likes to carry around naked and armless.

He's pretty sure those babies are more fun than the thing his mom is holding.

"I don't like him," he declares, slowly settling back onto the floor and taking a few steps backward just to be safe - Dean's heard babies cry before and doesn't want a repeat performance so close to him, _thank you very much._

He turns to his Uncle Bobby and gestures at the bundle, "You can take him."

The adults all laugh and Dean beams, basking in the attention before Uncle Bobby whisks him to the cafeteria to have a snack. 

It's a few days later, when his mom and the ugly baby come home, that she tugs Dean onto the couch and cuddles him.

"You know I love you, right kiddo?" Dean nods against her chest, huffing in the smell of her like an addict. It's been a while since he's been able to hug her without the baby bump in the way, and already he feels soothed by her steady heart and calming scent.

"And Sam loves you too. You're his big brother, he's gonna need you," she says, but her voice sounds funny, like it did when Grandpa Sam died. He struggles out of her hold, his eyes meeting her shiny ones.

"Mom?"

She presses her lips together and shakes her head, but instead of saying anything, she tugs Dean to her chest again, holding him close.

"It'll be okay, Dean," she murmurs, raining kisses down on the crown of his head, "Mommy's just a little tired." Dean nods hesitantly in understanding but he's had his ear pressed to her chest the whole time - he can feel the hitch in her heartbeat when she says those words.

"Boo!" Dean shouts, moving his hands away from his face and sticking his tongue out at Sammy. His brother's face lights up, squealing and laughing with his gummy smile, fat rosy cheeks lifting up so high that they nearly hide his eyes. 

Sam laughs and laughs and _laughs_ , and Dean preens, puffs his chest out because he's the _only_ one who can make Sam laugh like a lunatic. 

"Don't go scaring your brother, now," his mom calls from where she's laying on the couch, her eyes closed but her lips turned up too, because Sammy's laughs are infectious and everyone in the Winchester house can attest to that. 

"He's not scared, right Sammy?" Dean asks, and then hides behind his hands again, sending his baby brother into another fit of giggles, this one so long that Sam turns red in the face, his little fists shaking above him. 

He half expects his mom to scold him again, but when he looks over, he sees she's fallen asleep. Dean frowns, hand reaching out to shake her awake but he hesitates, looking at the dark bags under her eyes, the ease on her face. 

Uncle Bobby talked to him about this before, how hard having a new baby is and how tired his parents will be because of it. Slowly, he lowers his hand. Sam gurgles. 

"We gotta be quiet now," he whispers and Sam stares at him, eyes wide and spit dribbling down onto his double chin. Now that it's just them, he doesn't really know what to do. 

He decides on watching Scooby Doo and drags Sammy's baby swing over to the TV, flipping through the channels until they land on the one Dean recognizes. 

They get through one episode before Dad comes home, the purring engine cutting off and the door slamming shut before Dean can even scramble up from his place on the floor. 

He takes one look at them - at Sam and Dean huddled by the television and then at Mary, snoring softly on the couch - and Dean's heart twists at the funny expression he makes, something like worry.

But that's ridiculous, Dean thinks. What would he have to be worried about?

{Dean: 6}

The day his mom comes home with a shaved head, Dean knows instinctively that it's the beginning to an end. 

"What do you think?" she asks, and Dean wants to cry for some reason, but he doesn't know why, exactly. He's always liked her hair, how soft it was, how his hands could tangle in the blonde strands, how it smelled of her sweet perfume, how it tickled his face when she gave him a goodnight kiss. 

He doesn't know how to tell her this, without hurting her feelings, without letting her know that he knows something isn't right. 

"You look like me," he says instead, and it's true, kind of. Except Dean doesn't have bruises on his arms and legs, and he doesn't have huge black circles under his eyes, and he's not so skinny ~~'cause he doesn't spend his time throwing up.~~

She laughs at that, but it's a quiet raspy thing now, not at all like the loud, abrupt laugh she used to have. 

A lot has changed about her - _about their lives_ \- in the past few months; like how they go to the hospital a lot, and how everything has to be super duper clean when Mom's home, and how Mom doesn't laugh so much anymore, and how Dean's nightmares are worse ~~but there's no one there to comfort him anymore.~~

Dean just hopes that everything ends soon - the nightmares, the changes, the vomiting, _everything_. 

"Dean," his mom says with her lips pressed against his forehead. He can't reply, throat clogging with emotion, and eyes dripping tears, he won't be able to get a word out past the baseball sized lump in his throat.

" _Sweetheart_ ," she murmurs, and he can tell she feels the same ache and loss and _desperation_ he feels. He can hear it in the thickness of her voice, in how she struggles to say more than one word at a time, in the way her tears _burn_ across the top of his scalp.

She doesn't smell like lavender and softener and sweet baby milk anymore. Her scent is all gone, replaced by impersonal antiseptic cleaning supplies and alcoholic hand sanitizer and the pungent smell of the medicine they constantly pump into her.

She's not getting better. The doctors won't say it but he's not stupid, he knows, he _knows_ and he's _terrified_. 

His clings to her with trembling fingers, feeling his heart stutter in his chest as the realization dawns on him that she won't be there to scare the monsters away, won't be there to cradle him to her chest, won't be there to smile at him and watch cartoons and eat pie and, and -

He can't breathe, can't feel anything but panic well in his chest, because she's his _mom_ , how is he supposed to survive _without her_? He can't. He _won't_.

"No, no, no," he sobs, "Mom, don't _go_."

He grips her tighter, as if that will do anything to keep her there, as if he'll stop the cancer from stealing every last bit of her. He keeps begging her to stay, to not leave, he promises he'll be a better son, a better _brother_ , if only she'd stay for a bit longer.

She cries a little harder but just smoothes her hands down his back.

"It'll be okay," she whispers faintly against his hair, the warm breath tickling his head, the sensation at complete odds with the cold hospital room. He wants to scream and claw his way out of this nightmare, except he can't. This isn't a nightmare anymore, it's his reality.

Still, she whispers it over and over, like she had that night they'd stayed up together, and if he could speak past the tears, Dean would tell her it's a lie and that it _won't_ be okay because she'll be _gone_.

He can't though, so he lets her hold him, lets the lie wash over them, the words that offered him comfort just months ago now a reminder of what he's about to lose.

When she stops breathing, Dean refuses to let go, screaming and kicking at the nurses and his father until they have to drag him away. He stares at her lifeless body from Uncle Bobby's arms, remembers the skin and clothing that smelled nothing like her, and realizes with a start that there was nothing left of her for him to cling onto.   
  
  
  
  
  
  


Things don't get better for a long time.

Dad drinks and shouts and the night he slaps Dean across the face, Dean begins to think things may never be okay ever again.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


{Dean: 6 & 1/2}

Sam cries a lot more now.

His little face is always scrunched up, red and in a wail, and Dad yells at him to do something, to _shut him up already,_ so Dean does the only thing he can think of.

He crawls into Sam's crib - the one that's getting too small for him - and takes the crying baby into his arms. He tries to shush him like he'd seen his mom do so many times but Sam keeps crying and crying and _crying._ Dean hears something get hurled into the wall downstairs, and he feels a painful stinging in his nose, burning behind his eyes, and can't help but feel helpless and lost and _afraid_ because he's just a kid, he doesn't know what to _do_. 

"Shh, Sammy, _please_ ," he begs in a whisper through his tears, and he can't see Sam all that well anymore, but it doesn't matter 'cause Sam's sniffling now, his wailing dying down into a little snuffle.

And it shouldn't feel so monumental but it _does_ , for some reason, and Dean can't help but cry harder.

"It'll be okay, Sammy, you'll see," Dean blubbers, and he repeats the words, rocking Sam in his arms even though he weighs a gazillion pounds but it doesn't matter because nothing sounds worse than letting go of his baby brother right now. 

He doesn't really believe his words now, but he says them anyway because that's what Mom would've done and if he says them enough, he thinks ( _he hopes_ ) he'll start believing them again. 

"Buh?" Sam looks at him with curious dark eyes, his eyelashes still clumped together from his tears, and Dean has to bite his lips to keep from crying in earnest.

"Buh," he repeats, giving his brother a watery smile when Sam begins to giggle, as if his cheeks didn't have tear tracks drying on them, as if it was completely normal for Dean to crawl into the crib with him and soothe him instead of Mom. 

Dean talks to him that night, telling him half-remembered stories from the story books no one reads to him anymore, tells him about Mom and her pretty hair and soft perfume, about Dad and his big belly laughs. He talks and talks and talks, until Sam's eyes go hazy and heavy, until his eyelids slip shut and his head thuds against Dean's arm. 

He thinks about setting Sammy down and going to his own bed but takes one look at his face, the wet eyelashes clumped together and the furrow between his brows, and decides against it, decides against leaving him all alone. 

Gently, he rolls Sam onto his back, putting a hand there ( _'cause he sleeps better with a hand on his back, Mom said_ ) and falls asleep, hoping, as he does every night, that they'll wake up and Mom will be there again. 

  
  
  
  
  
{Dean: 7}

"Dean? Think you can stay a minute?" Mr. Collins asks one day before recess, and Dean feels dread settle in his stomach like a heavy stone, because he _likes_ Mr. Collins but he's going to ask questions - questions Dean can't ( _won't_ ) answer. 

"You're not in trouble," the man says after everyone's left but the tension Dean feels doesn't leave. He's heard that lie enough times to not fall for it so easily. 

Mr. Collins looks at him for a moment and Dean tries not to shy away but he _knows_ what he looks like - knows from his classmates that he's considered dirty and poor and dumb. He doesn't want Mr. Collins to think that, and Dean knows that if he looks too much, he'll think it too because everyone else does. 

He looks away when his eyes start burning, fixing his gaze firmly on his dinosaur shirt - and his heart falls when he sees there's a new hole at the hem and a big strain near the dinosaur's foot. 

It's probably why the other kids tease him so much, but he doesn't _know_ how to tell them that Miss Ellen doesn't come around now, not since they moved into the tiny apartment, doesn't know how to say that he doesn't know how to wash their clothes yet because she used to do it for them and no one ever taught him. 

Doesn't know how to explain that before _that,_ he used to have a mom, and _she_ would wash his clothes and make them smell nice and clean, that his clothes didn't always have holes in them. Doesn't know how to say that she'd wipe away the stains on his face with a smile ~~and call him her **smart** boy. ~~

He doesn't know how to explain this all to them, but he's not sure he would even if he could form the right words. But a part of him wishes they knew, knew that he wasn't always like this, that his life was different before. 

"Are you-" his teacher starts and then pauses, sighs. "Are things okay at home, Dean?" 

_No_ , he thinks. 

"Yeah, fine," he says, and looks at Mr. Collins for a second, because a good lie requires eye contact. He looks for a second but then glances away, down, because Mr. Collins has nice, warm eyes that crinkle in the corners and Dean's scared that he'll tell him everything if he keeps looking. 

{Dean: 8}

There's a kid at Bobby's house when John dumps them there for the summer.

Bobby doesn't explain how he got there or who he is, but after unceremoniously telling them that his name is _Castiel,_ he all but shoves the three of them outside to run around with the chickens.

They're playing with the new baby chicks when Sam opens his big old trap and calls him _Bean_ , and for a few seconds after, no one moves, no one even _breathes_ \- it's like the whole world has stopped around them, the trees gone still and the animals all gone quiet.

And yeah, Sam's only three but the kid can talk just _fine -_ it's just that for some reason, he insists on calling him _Bean_ instead of his actual name - which he _can_ say 'cause Dean's _heard_ him.

Dean wipes his hands on his jorts, fingers folding to form fists, feeling anxiety thrum through him. It's not so much that he minds the annoying nickname - he almost cried when Sammy's first word was Bean - but he's still nervous about it being used in front of some random kid.

It's quiet until Castiel's laugh cuts through the silence, and the world around them resumes with the swaying trees and livestock making all sorts of noise. Dean's about ready to hunch his shoulders and herd Sammy into the house but - but he doesn't, because Castiel doesn't laugh mean like the kids at school.

No, Castiel laughs _nice_ , with his whole body, his belly shaking and his shoulders moving, and his cheeks get pink and his eyes get all sparkly blue like the pool Bobby takes them to. Dean thinks he'd like to bottle Cas' laugh up and keep it safe, maybe put it in his secret box, right next to the pictures of his mom.

His laugh makes Dean think that he's laughing with them, not at them, and that's... that's a nice feeling. It feels like he's _included_.

Sam starts laughing with him - that loud, slightly maniac laugh that toddlers seem to use whenever they think they've made a successful joke - and Dean can't help the smile that curls his lips. Listening to them two laugh... it makes him believe that maybe, just _maybe_ his mom could have been right after all.  
  
  
  
  
  
{Dean: 9}

"I'm hungry, Dean," Sam whispers from where they're huddled together on their bed - a thin mattress on the floor. _Me too_ , Dean thinks. 

"I know Sammy, but dad'll be here soon," he says but he's been saying that for _three days now_ and they haven't even _heard_ from the man. A part of Dean is scared that this is it, that John's abandoned them for good, or that he's dead and they're orphans now, or that they're going to die here, in this cold apartment, starving and huddled together. "It'll be okay, you'll see." 

"I'm so _hungry_ ," Sam says again and Dean wants to snap at him, tell him that they both are but that they'll eat soon, but Sam's crying and shaking and Dean... Dean doesn't know what to do. 

_He never does._

"Shh, Sam, shh. Stay here, okay? I'll be right back." Dean tucks their blanket around Sam, trying to ignore how his little brother shivers and sobs. 

He closes the front door behind him and breathes deeply, feels the aching in his stomach and the bigger ache in his heart. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know how he's supposed to feed Sammy, doesn't know who to call, or how to _fix_ this. 

Desperation claws at his throat, thick and fearsome, threatening to choke him. He's supposed to take care of Sam - it's the _one_ thing his mom asked of him - and it seems like he can't even do that. 

"Mom, _please_ ," he croaks, squeezing his eyes shut tight, but a few tears still slip out. He hopes that she'll help him, guide him in some direction, show him what to do, give him a sign - he doesn't know, doesn't care. He just _hopes_. 

But this isn't like the movies or the books, and when he opens his eyes again, the world is still the same as before. Dark and bleak and terrifying. 

Across the hall, a door opens and a woman peeks out, her eyes dark and wide and filled with so much melancholy when she looks at him that Dean wants to look around and see what's got her so sad. 

"Dean, right?" He nods warily. "I'm Missouri Moseley... Your mo- your _father_ asked me to keep an eye on you." 

He eyes her skeptically 'cause he _knows_ his dad, knows he would never ask a stranger for help, much less with his kids, but there's a pot of something on the stove behind Miss Moseley and it smells _good_ , rich and savory and drifting out into the hall. 

He thinks of Sammy inside, curled up into a little ball, his stomach growling and his eyes desperate. She looks at him knowingly, dark eyes sad and worried and _angry_ \- but not at him, no. Dean knows that look, saw it in Mr. Collins' own eyes when John came into his parent teacher meeting sober, but reeking of alcohol. 

"You can go ahead and fetch your brother," she says finally, leaving her door open an inch, and Dean doesn't have to be told twice. 

They spend the next few weeks sneaking into Miss Moseley's apartment, and Sam - the complete neanderthal - practically inhales everything she puts down in front of him while Dean sneaks some of his into napkins to stuff into his pockets for later, when Sam is hungry _again_. 

They're awkward, at first, and Dean is still wary, sure that one day Miss Moseley will kick them out or refuse to feed them, but it doesn't happen. Sam doesn't have the same reservations, and instead warms right up to her, yapping her ear away about one thing or another while they eat at her dinner table. 

Slowly, he begins to trust Missouri, knows that she's genuine and kind in a way few people are. She teaches him to sew, patching up the holes on Sammy's jeans until they look new, and _beams_ at him when he presents her with homemade potholders, stitched together sloppily but with careful devotion. 

It quickly becomes the highlight of their day, rushing through their chores and washing up before they trek across the hallway, where Miss Moseley's warm home and delicious cooking envelopes them, makes them forget about their own dark and drafty apartment. 

It doesn't last long, because good things never do, and before the end of the month, they wake up to John cramming their meager belongings into big black trash bags, yelling at them to hurry up 'cause he's found them someplace nicer to live. 

Dean stalls, dragging his feet, because it's early - too early for Miss Moseley to be up - and he wants to say goodbye to her, to thank her for everything she did for them ~~and maybe beg her to keep them~~. But John's not a patient man, and he pinches Dean's soft underarm, tells him to get moving _or_ _else_. 

They eat burgers that night, thick and greasy and nowhere near as good as Missouri Moseley's cooking. 

{Dean: 10}

Dean freezes in the dark, pressing his back against the wall of the little hallway, right where he hung up the family portrait Sammy painted in his art class. The thumbtack is digging into his back and it stings but Dean doesn't dare move, doesn't breathe.

Heavy, stumbling footsteps make their way deeper into the apartment, and Dean doesn't need to sniff the air to know that John's drunk off his ass. He's _always_ drunk.

"Dean," the man calls, slurred and rumbly, something dark underlying his tone.

It's the same tone the things in his nightmares use. Something deep and promising of danger, of pain and hurt and all the things that cause Dean to awake in a cold sweat. It's the same, except he's not going to wake up from this.

Terror wells in his chest, and not for the first time, he wishes his mom were around. It'd be different with her alive, he thinks; they'd still live in their pretty house with the flowers in the backyard, and he wouldn't have to burn his hands cooking for Sam cause he's still too short to see over the stove, and his dad wouldn't drink like this, wouldn't hurt Dean like this.

" _Dean_!" John bellows, slamming his fist into something, startling Dean from his daydream. He draws in a deep breath, willing himself to swallow down the panic because crying about it isn't going to _prevent_ it, okay?

He needs to get out there and face it like a man. (A _man_ , he wants to laugh hysterically, _he's a kid_ ).

Later that night, as John's boot squeezes the air from his lungs, Dean forces his eyes shut and thinks of Sam, of his bright eyed innocence and nonstop blabbering, of how happy he'll look tomorrow, rosy cheeked and wide-eyed, all excited from his _'first big kid sleepover, Dean!_ '

He thinks of Cas and how his eyes light up like blue fire when he talks about something he really likes - _bees_ \- and how he spent the entire last summer wearing a clip on tie even though it was ' _hot as balls_ ' according to Bobby. 

He thinks of his mom and her gentle voice, her soft blue eyes and the way she'd tell him it would be okay. Her words ring in his head like bells, lilting and soft, a promise so sweet but one so untrue that he wants to laugh at the irony of it all because things are the _furthest_ from okay. 

But there's still a little part of that four year old in him, a tiny part that tells him to believe it because he has to, because his mom told him to.

He doesn't quite believe the words anymore but he clings to them like a man drowning in damnation.

"What's that?" Cas pokes at Dean's stomach curiously, where his shirt has ridden up. 

Dean jams at the plastic buttons, muttering under his breath for Mario to run _faster_ , _Browser is right there, you Italian idjit._

"A bruise," Dean answers without thinking, because he _knows_ that John had hit him there a few days ago, knows the exactly placement of his bruise - and well, it's not like he went out and got a tattoo or something - it can only _be_ a bruise. 

He freezes as soon as he realizes what he's said, feeling his heart literally _stop_ and then begin to gallop, beating fast, so fast that Dean is a little scared it'll jump out of his chest in a feat of bloody gymnastics. 

The GameBoy screen turns into a black tunnel, a soft tinny sound exiting the speakers when Mario dies. He doesn't notice.

"From a cabinet - I ran into a cabinet running from Sam," he rushes out, shoving his shirt down and shuffling away from Cas. 

Cas looks at him with those big blue eyes, searching and sympathetic, like he knows exactly what Dean's going through, but he _doesn't_ because he can't possibly _know_. 

Dean's good at keeping his bruises covered up, there's _no way_ he knows, Dean's too good at pretending. 

"It's not that bad," Dean blurts out and he sees the light in Castiel's eyes dim just a tiny bit. "Don't tell." 

"Dean-"

"Please," he begs, desperate and scared because they'll say he's lying and then - then John will be _real_ _mad_ and Dean doesn't want him to get mad. 

"Okay," Cas whispers and Dean knows he wants to say more but he doesn't want to _hear_ it. 

"It's your turn." He shoves the GameBoy at Cas and flops onto his side, hitching the blanket up to his chin even though it's too hot to be covered, but he can't handle the thought of Cas looking at his bruise again.

And Cas, his best friend, his _only_ friend, just nods and doesn't say anything, just takes the GameBoy. 

They spend the rest of the summer pretending that Dean didn't arrive covered in bruises and scars, pretending that he won't get more when he leaves. 

{Dean: 11}

Dean starts leaving his memory box at Bobby's house, too scared to leave it where John can find it, too scared he'll throw it out or burn it or take the only pictures he has of his mom. 

He shoves it under a floorboard in his room, pulls a rug over it, piles a shoebox on top of that, and scatters a few toy soldiers on the box just to be safe. Even after that, he's jittery, nervous. He's _terrified_ that someone will stumble upon it and rip away the last things he has to remember his mom by.

Maybe he is weak and too sensitive like John says, but Dean doesn't _care_ , because when he looks at his mom's smiling face and pretty blonde hair, the bruises stop aching so much and he feels like, like he can _breathe_ and it - it's the only thing he has to remember of his life from _before_. 

Before the beatings and the alcohol and the aching sadness and being Sam's _parent_.

Before he had to worry about money for food, or getting Sammy the school supplies he needs, or how he was going to hide the finger-shaped bruises on his arms because his teachers ( _and friends_ ) were getting suspicious. 

So he hides the box under a bunch of junk and pulls it out every summer, using a flashlight to see her face, clinging to the few memories he has of her, reliving them over and over until they play like a movie in his head. 

' _Sammy's gonna need you_ ,' she'd said, but she never thought to think that Dean would need _her_. 

{Dean: 12}

Dean's twelve when Bobby asks him about the nasty purple bruises on his stomach.

They sit in a tense silence after the question, Dean staring resolutely at his plate of pie, gripping the plastic fork so hard he's afraid it's gonna snap.

The man's smart, Dean'll give him that - buttering him up with fresh pie, acting like he needs someone to test it when they both know damn well that it'll be flakey perfection.

His question lingers in the air, heavy and waiting.

A part of him wants to fess up, to tell Bobby, to blubber and whine like a big, dumb baby and let the man comfort him. This part of him doesn't even care that Cas is outside and would probably see him crying like a little girl.

But the bigger part, the scared part, tells him to shut his trap, to think about his words before he says something stupid. He's seen where those other kids go - to those drab government buildings and even worse foster homes, usually split up from their own siblings.

The thought of losing Sammy - no, Dean doesn't even want to _think_ about it.

Something in his head whispers that he deserves this, that if he leaves, John's just going to hurt someone else and, and Dean's already used to it, _right_? He doesn't need someone else to take his place. He can take it.

So he'll keep Sammy with him and protect the hypothetical people his dad would hurt, and he can handle it just _fine_ , has been for years.

"Dean?" Bobby asks, voice full of caution and concern. Dean realizes he's been glaring at his pie for who knows how long, not talking, barely even breathing.

He looks up at Bobby, shrugs, mutters that he doesn't know, and then sees something in the old man break, something falling apart in those damned whiskey eyes of his. It's like the world has tilted on its axis, like the rug has shifted from beneath him, because he's never seen Bobby like this, so gutted and haunted, so Dean does the only thing he can think of. 

He places his hand on the old man's arm and gives him his best smile, the one he uses on nosy teachers and guidance counselors,

"I'm fine. Swear," he says. 

He figures that if he says it enough, uses enough conviction, he'll start believing it, too.   
  
  
  
  
  


They stop spending their summers at Bobby's house.

That first summer alone, they spend locked in the house, sweating in front of the dinky little fan John brought home from ~~a junkyard~~ a yard sale. Sam whines and moans the entire time, tells Dean everyday how much he misses the fresh strawberries and cold lemonade, misses the clucking chickens and the community pool - even if it does smell a bit like pee. 

Dean misses those things too, but most of all, he misses Cas. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
{Dean: 13}

John drags Dean out of bed one night, gripping the back of his shirt so tightly that it nearly chokes him, but the adrenaline of it wakes him up, forces him to blink any sleep away. He throws him on the lumpy couch, face red and chest heaving, looking like a mad bull in the middle of their living room.

"What the _fuck_ is this?" John demands, thrusting a piece of paper so close to his face that Dean goes cross-eyed trying to read it. He leans back, heart pounding, and feels the color drain from his face as he reads the eviction notice he'd forgotten to hide.

He was going to go have a talk with the landlord in the morning, arrange some kind of payment plan, but John's seen it now. There's no weaseling his way out of this one, no arrangement to be made now because John Winchester's too _prideful_ to ask for help.

"An eviction notice," he hears himself say faintly. 

_It's not my fault_ , he wants to say. They've only been here four months, but it's not like people are willing to hire a petty thief and John barely gives him enough to buy food for _Sam,_ they can't afford the place and it's _not his fault._

"An eviction notice," John repeats slowly, and it's full of malice and hatred and Dean tucks his hands under his thighs to hide their trembling. 

He chances a glance at the bedroom door, hoping that Sam sleeps through this, that he doesn't wake up and go looking for Dean. He doesn't want Sam to know what happens to him - even if he suspects it, Dean doesn't want him to _see_. 

It isn't even _that_ bad - not _really_ \- but Dean knows his little brother. He knows Sam will try to come to his defense, all five feet of him shaking in front of Dean, but trying to protect him nonetheless.

Because he doesn't know Dean is protecting _him_ from John.

He can't risk Sammy finding out what John does when he has too much rage and alcohol and grief pumping through his veins. What he's been doing on the nights when trashing shitty motel rooms and hitting stuff isn't enough to settle the fury burning in him.

It isn't that bad, not if it means that Sam doesn't get the same treatment. He's heard of worse stories than his, kids who sleep outside and don't get to eat at all - hell, Dean's living the high life in comparison to them. 

_It's not that bad_ , Dean repeats in his head when John advances, hands curling into cruel fists.

"So damn _useless_ ," John all but snarls, and his voice is quiet with fury but Dean hears it loud and clear, and it feels like a slap, like a reminder than he'll never be good enough. 

Dean forces himself to stay small and quiet, hoping that John will tire soon, that he'll toss Dean down and spit at him to go to his room. 

He hopes it's not too bad, because they have to pack in the morning. 

{Dean: 14}

"What about that one?" Dean asks, shoving Sam so his kid brother looks at where he's pointing.

"Um," Sam pauses and scrunches his face up like a confused puppy, nose wrinkling up as he gazes at the book on his lap and back up at the inky night sky. Dean kind of wants to shove that headlamp off his giant head, but it's the only light they have to read the damn book and Dean doesn't even want to _think_ about the bitch fit Sam would throw.

Besides, he thinks, they need _some_ way to pass the time.

"I think it's Libra." Sam points out the constellation's other points, the brighter ones that they can see out in the plains.

Dean nods in agreement, as if he knows the first fucking thing about stars. Unfortunately, it's the only book Dean had managed to shove into their backpack before the librarian had all but kicked him out on his ass.

It's still an okay way to pass the time, even if he doesn't understand how the fuck three bright orbs in the sky were somehow supposed to look like a scale, or a dragon, or _anything_ really.

Sam snorts at him, probably seeing through his easy agreement and shoves the heavy book at him.

The headlamp shuts off a second later and he feels, more than hears, Sam settle down on their sleeping bag, wriggling and snuffling around, cold little fingers digging into his sides until Dean hisses and smacks his hands away.

They both freeze when a grunt cuts through the air and hold their breaths until John's steady, bear-like snores pick up again.

Dean can't help but glance over, eyes seeking and finding the glinting keys dangling just out of John's pocket, pretty and shiny like a beacon calling to him. He wants to reach over and snatch the keys, pick Sammy up and haul ass to the car, drive somewhere far away - wants so badly that his chest _aches_ with the desire and not just the bruises.

He knows it's all a fantasy. John may sound like a bear, a full blown predator, but he sleeps like prey - alert and ready at the slightest movement. 

"Dean?" Sam whispers some time later, the blocks of ice he calls feet pressed to Dean's shins. He hums in response.

"I'm scared," he says quietly and Dean can all but _feel_ his heart snap in two. It feels so much like it did all those years ago, when Sam was so young and so hungry, and Dean didn't know what to do. It feels nearly the same as it did then, except so much _worse_ because he _still_ can't do anything useful. 

He doesn't need to look down at Sam to know his eyes are glassy, barely keeping the tears at bay, or that his hands are trembling and he can't blame the cool night air.

He tugs Sam closer, ignoring how fucking cold the kid gets, and rubs his back like he used to when they were younger - how mom used to when Dean was a kid. A defeated sigh, shaky and exhausted, escapes his lips, because no amount of stupid stargazing or pretending they're camping or half-assed explanations can change the situation they're in.

Hell, Dean's scared too. They're running out of food and money, they have no place to live, and the longer they're on the road, the more desperate John gets, and _fuck_ if that thought doesn't send a chill of absolute _terror_ through Dean.

"We'll get through it," he says, and neither of them bring up the fact that Dean didn't say his usual three words - the only indication that for once, Dean isn't sure that they'll be okay. 

That, or he's tired of lying. 

{Dean: 15}

Dean exhales, long and quiet, letting the last of his oxygen escape his lungs. His right side aches with the action, something in his bones protesting, telling him to take little breaths in, little breaths out, but he breathes in deeply anyway. Lets his bones and muscles hurt. 

The motel water sluices over his body. 

With trembling fingertips, he traces over the raised skin on his ribs, hissing when hot water works its way into the wound. And maybe he's a little fucked up, maybe he just wants to feel something for himself, maybe he just doesn't care anymore but he presses into the cut, fingertips turning the flesh a lighter color until he can't take the pain anymore, until his vision blurs and he has to choke back a cry or let Sammy know he's in pain.

He's good at that now - suppressing his cries. John likes to hear them too much, and Dean will rollerskate backwards into _Hell_ before he gives his father that satisfaction. 

It makes his beatings a little more vicious, a little more brutal, but he doesn't care. A tiny part of him hopes that one day he'll push John too much, goad him a little too far, let him do a little too much damage.

That thought used to scare him before, but now Dean's not so sure. 

At least dead he wouldn't have to worry about hiding his bruises from nosy little brothers and worried best friends. 

Dean sends Sam to summer camp. 

It's for science nerds just like him and the smile that Sam gives him, excited and bright and so damn _grateful,_ makes it worth every penny. 

He'll be eating dry cereal and stale bread for the rest of the summer but that doesn't matter because Sammy will be far away, having fun with kids his age and not locked in a decrepit apartment with John Winchester while he's at work. 

"Are you sure?" he asks, smile dying just a bit, "I could stay and help out, or-"

"Sam," Dean cuts in and feels his smile wobble a tiny bit, because Sam's a real good kid and every once in a while he's reminded of just how _good_ he is. "Go. I - we'll be fine." 

His brother just bites his lip, searching Dean's face dubiously before he seems to come to a decision and nods his head, giving Dean another blinding smile. 

It's only when he watches Sam's bus drive away a few weeks later that he realizes the implication of what he's just done. He's done more than give Sam a summer getaway - he's given John an uninterrupted summer with Dean as his personal punching bag. 

{Dean: 16}

In hindsight, Dean should've really seen this coming.

"Quiet," John hisses when he grunts at another badly aimed punch. The old man's drunk - _like that's a surprise,_ he thinks bitterly - but even all wobbly and uncoordinated, he lands several good hits. When Dean chokes on his spit, John lifts him up by a hand on his neck, his eyes unfocused but dark - darker than their usual brown - almost black with _malice_.

He knows then, that tonight is different. Tonight he's out of control.

John Winchester may like to beat his kid bloody but he never, _ever_ leaves evidence in places clothes don't cover. 

"You don't want to wake Sammy, do you?" he croons, like he actually gives a shit. And that - _that's_ what sets Dean off. The underlying threat, the implication that John would do the same thing to Sam - the very thing that Dean's been _protecting_ him from is what wakes some instinct in him.

It's like he can't think anything, can't see, can't feel - all he can do is _act_ , and Dean doesn't try to fight it.

His fists go flying, knuckles meeting skin and feeling the muscle beneath because no one, absolutely no one lays a finger on Sam.

Dean's done being used as a personal punching bag, done going into pharmacies to buy painkillers and ice and bandages, done getting concerned, pitying looks and intrusive questions, done with John's taunts now - no, _especially_ since they're directed at Sam.

Mary may have protected him from the imaginary monsters in his head, but Dean's going to protect Sam from the monster they call a father, even if it means fighting tooth and nail.

His knuckles split and bleed and _ache_ , sending pain lancing through his entire arm and nervous system with every punch he throws, but he hardly notices, too caught up in his thoughts of _Sam, safe, Cas, mom, protect._

The next thing he knows, he's hauling Sam up, carrying him to the car - Jesus does that kid weigh a _fuckton_ \- and dumping him inside, shoving the key into the Impala with shaky, bloody fingers. 

When they show up at Bobby's place hours later, just as the sun's coming up, Dean's covered in bruises and blood, aching but _alive._ And Sam - Sam's _okay_ , just worried and scared, but he's _fine_ , untouched by John, and that thought sends more relief through Dean than he's willing to admit.

" _Dammit Dean_ ," he hears Bobby swear right before the adrenaline wears off completely and Dean passes out on the porch.   
  
  
  
  
  
  


When he wakes up, the first thing he sees is Castiel's scowling face hovering over him.

He hasn't seen the guy in years but it doesn't matter cause this is _his_ Cas, with the same deep blue eyes and same scowl, with the same gentle hands.

"You're an idiot," he hisses, smacking him soundly on the arm - scratch the gentle hands. Before Dean can so much as _blink_ , Cas is dabbing antiseptic on the cuts littering his face, his face warring between furious concern and sad disbelief. 

" _Idiot_ ," Cas repeats when Dean flinches at the sudden movement of his hand, but he sounds a whole lot more sad than he did before. A part of him wants to push Cas away and take over, lick his own wounds in solace, but there's something soothing about Castiel's deft fingers, the way he smears the ointment that makes Dean melt back into the faded bedsheets.

It's nice, being taken care of - like he matters or something. He lets Cas work in silence, only hissing in pain when a bit of rubbing alcohol leaks from the cotton ball and into his eye. 

He watches as Cas fusses over him, eyes tracing over his face, so familiar, yet so different, taking in the slight differences and noting what's stayed the same. There was a time not so long ago when Dean was convinced he'd never see this face again. 

Now that he has him here, Dean can't take his eyes off him. 

He's drowsy with sleep and aching in places he didn't _know_ could ache, but he doesn't care. He's alive and he's away from John, Cas is _here_ and Sam -

"Sam?" He asks, almost jolting upright to go look for the kid himself but Cas pushes him back down, his lips pursing in concentration.

"Went to town with Bobby."

Then he forces Dean onto his back, rucking his shirt up before he even has a chance to protest. He goes stiff, tense, when the stale bedroom air meets his skin, every bit of drowsiness escaping his veins as he becomes painfully aware of what Cas is staring at.

The thing is, he _knows_ his back is all sorts of fucked up, like some deranged Jeffrey Dahmer meets Picasso type of messed up art. There's a _reason_ he doesn't show it off. 

He turns around, ignoring the way his body aches and protests against the sudden movement, too embarrassed and shamed to show Cas what John - his own _father_ \- did to him. 

What Dean _let_ happen. 

Blood roars in his ears the longer Cas stays quiet. He should say something - a joke, or something, to lighten the mood - but the words are stuck in his windpipe.

"Not that bad, huh?" Cas asks quietly, echoing Dean's words from years ago but his voice is thick and throaty, and Dean clenches his eyes shut because this is _his fault_. He asked Cas to keep it quiet, he let John do this, let it go on this long, he drove them here. 

"Dean?" He forces himself to crack his eyes open. 

"Yeah?"

"You're - "

"An idiot?" Dean guesses, hints of self depreciation tinging his tone. He means it as a joke, but even to his own ears, it falls flat.

"No," Cas says slowly, carefully. He places some kind of lotion on the bruise on Dean's jaw, eyes fixed on the spot with some kind of burning intensity that makes him glad Cas isn't staring at him. 

When he finishes, he looks at Dean, blue eyes clear and sad and just the tiniest bit shiny. His undivided attention makes the breath in his throat catch, air stuck in his lungs as he stares. Waits. 

Finally, he opens his mouth, licks his lips, his gaze flitting away for a second before returning, more determined than before. 

"You're safe," he says, but to Dean it sounds a whole lot like 'it'll be okay.'   
  
  
  
  


[Dean: 16 1/2]

"How'd you get here?" Dean blurts one summer evening, lying next to Cas on the hood of the Impala. The metal's still warm underneath them, the engine clicking as it settles, and the air feels thick and sticky as the sun sets, disappearing just beyond the tree line, bright and orange and huge looking. 

"What?" 

Dean shifts, face burning in embarrassment, hot and red like the setting sun, but he soldiers on before Cas can tease him. "With Bobby. How'd you end up at his place?" 

Silence falls over them again and Dean thinks that he won't answer, that their conversation is over before it began, but Cas breaks the silence, his voice low and steady. 

"My mom left me here." Cas twists a piece of hay between his fingers, blue eyes squinting at it almost suspiciously. He's not looking at Dean, or the sky, or anything else. 

"She said she'd come get me when things with dad settled down a bit. He was _sick_. Schizophrenia. Took pills for it, but they changed a dose and... and _he_ changed.

"He'd get these like, bursts of anger, uncontrollable and sudden - we never knew when he'd go off again. And then he started... _hitting_ her," he says, but the words are said nonchalantly, like he's said them so many times they've lost all meaning. 

Dean knows that tactic - _used_ that tactic - making things seem less important to not seem weak, or affected. He watches as Cas flings the piece of hay away, watches his arm fling down onto the hood of the car with a dull _thud_ , watches as his own hand inches forward, watches as his pinky finger curls around Castiel's. 

Watches as Castiel's finger squeezes around his own. 

They both turn to watch the sun descend in a blazing inferno, colors soft and muted now, neither of them acknowledging the burning contact between them. 

"I would spend my summers here, usually... Then it became summers and winters, helping Bobby do things around the farm. Until - until one year my mom didn't come for me."

He imagines Cas when they met, all bright smiles and wide eyes, and his heart aches. A part of him regrets asking, wishes he could take it back, because he knows - that whatever he says next will be much worse than anything Dean imagined. 

He listens through the rest of the story, of how his mom is in a vegetative state, of how his dad is dead - 'blew his own brains out' Cas says -, of the court dates where Bobby had fought for his custody, of the therapy sessions and evaluations, of the depression that plagues him when he thinks about his parents too long.

He can feel Cas' gaze on him then and he shifts his head too, their eyes locking. 

"Now I'm here," he whispers. 

"Now you're here," Dean swallows thickly, and later he'll give his actions an excuse - _too little sleep, the sadness in his blue eyes, the loneliness they both felt_ \- but for now, he just shuffles just a tiny bit closer, fingers twining around Castiel's, clutching his warm hand. 

They stay there even after the last light of day recedes, even when the stars begin to twinkle, bright and tiny in the vast darkness, even after their hands get sweaty and the air around them too cold. 

"I think," Cas starts suddenly, pointing up in the sky, "that those few stars are-" 

"Libra," Dean blurts - and he's _pretty sure_ he's right since it's literally the same constellation Sam had pointed out to him all those nights ago - and tries not to preen at the astonished look Cas gives him. 

His pride goes flying out the window and into the dumpster when Cas starts to laugh, loud and high, his shoulders shaking as he tries to stop only to start again. 

His hand slips from Dean's as he tries to muffle his laughter, and Dean wants to be annoyed but he can't even _pretend_ to be, because Cas looks so young and carefree like this, cheeks red and eyes bright, hair tousled from driving with the windows down. He smiles instead, a warm feeling in his chest because Cas _deserves_ to laugh like this, to smile wide and happy (even if he is laughing _at_ Dean). 

"It's - it's the L-Little Dipper," Cas finally hiccups out, his face still split in a huge smile and Dean groans. Lets his head thunk back against Baby's hood. 

"I friggin' _hate_ constellations." 

And that sets Cas off again, laughing until he's not making any noise, just shaking his head with his lips parted, his hands clapping uselessly, shoulders shaking, rolling around on the hood of the car. 

Dean rolls his eyes, but can't help the laughter that bubbles in his chest the longer he watches Cas move like some dumb seal, and it all spills out the moment Cas rolls too far, his eyes bulging out of his head when he realizes his mistake a second before he falls off and onto the dirt floor. 

Dean scrambles to the side, peering at Cas' body lying on the harsh dirt, and they stare at each other for a moment before they both burst out laughing, long enough for their stomachs to ache and their lungs to protest. 

When they can finally breathe again, Dean offers him a hand, and Cas takes it but doesn't let go, his fingers twining around Dean's so perfectly that he'd _swear_ they were made to fit together. 

His heart is racing in his chest, blood rushing in his ears, heat blooming on his cheeks, but Dean doesn't give a damn because Cas' hand is in his and for that fleeting moment, everything feels _okay_. 

"You don't have to hide them, you know," Cas whispers one night, lying on his side next to Dean, his breath ghosting across Dean's lips, his nose, his cheeks. The words feel like an accusation, and Dean doesn't like that, rolls onto his back and bites back the words itching to leave, words that are ugly and mean and scathing. 

He knows what Cas is talking about. Of course he does. 

"They're ugly," he says to the ceiling, hands bunched into fists. _I'm ugly_ , he thinks. 

He doesn't mean it in to sound so vain, but there is no other way to explain it. He _is_ ugly. Ugly and scarred and broken beyond recognition. He looks like some mangled toy, like he was taken apart and put back together but something just isn't quite _right_. 

And Cas - Cas is just so _pretty_. Tanned and smooth and so fucking _whole_ that Dean can't understand how he can stand to look at him. 

A soft click echoes in the room and golden light floods the bed. Before Dean can ask what he's doing, Cas is shrugging off his shirt, pulling it in a swift movement and bunching it up in his hands. 

"A dog attacked me when I was 6," he says, and points at his shoulder, where some of his skin is a slightly different color. It looks a bit like Australia but Dean has a feeling that now isn't the time to say that, just stares at the jagged shape, at the smooth skin around it. 

"I rode my bike into a fence when I was 7," he continues before Dean can say anything, turning around to face him, pointing out a thin, white scar along his hipbone. His fingers itch to trace it, to feel the discolored skin and feel the warmth underneath. 

Cas points at his collar, "I think we both remember this one." 

Dean ducks his head, cheeks flaming, and bites back the urge to say _sorry for letting the rabid chicken attack you._

"And here I burned myself trying to iron Bobby's shirt for court." He points at his forearm, at the raised skin there, a thick strip of skin that is almost the same color as the rest of his arm but not quite. 

"We all have scars, Dean," he says quietly, opens his mouth but then snaps it shut, and fiddles with his shirt as if to put it on. Dean places his hand over Cas', stops him, and pulls his shirt off instead, feeling his skin pebble in the cool evening air. He has more scars than Cas, little ones, long ones, thin ones, and ones that he can't bear to explain. 

For a second, neither of them breathes, but then Dean swallows, his throat clicking in the suddenly quiet room. 

"I don't remember all of them," he explains weakly, giving Cas a wan smile. _I don't want to explain them_ , he means, and he has a feeling that Cas, with his knowing gaze and furrowed brow, knows that. 

"Can I...?" Cas lifts his hands up tentatively and Dean stares, blinks. He doesn't understand how anyone would want to touch him, not when he looks the way he does, marred and scarred and _not_ _right_ , but he nods nonetheless. 

Cas is gentle but firm, his fingertips skating over every bump, feeling the raised skin, fingering the thin ones almost in contemplation. 

Dean exhales, long and sharp, when lips press against his chest, right against the cigarette burn next to his heart. It feels strange, the soft gentle press of lips on a place where he's only known pain, but it feels nice, _good,_ so Dean lets him. 

He lets Cas kiss across his chest, lips caressing every inch of his torn skin, lets his whispers of reassurance wash over him, low and warm, 

lets him kiss up his neck, 

across his cheek, 

to his lips. 

{Dean 17}

Everything that goes up must come back down eventually. That's the way things have always worked, even before Newton - or was it Galileo? Or someone else? Dean doesn't know - discovered it. What he _does_ know is that the apple falls, tragedy follows bliss, death follows life. 

This was no exception. 

It's high summer when a big black truck comes rumbling in, sending dirt in a blazing trail behind it, like a bad omen. The sticky sweet juice of a fresh strawberry sours on Dean's tongue, and he drops the stem of it to the floor, wiping away the evidence with the back of his hand.

Dean had known it was easy. _Too_ easy. He had just hoped, wished, that this time it would be easy and _stay_ easy.

He should've known better. The apple _always_ falls.

"Dean." Is the first thing his father says to him, voice as low and dark and gravelly as ever, a bitter, if childish reminder of Dean's nightmares. 

"Sir." His hands don't shake out of sheer will but Dean's heart is pounding away in his chest, scared and jittery. He knows Bobby won't let anything happen to them, not willingly, but he also knows the darkness in John's eyes - knows it means nothing but trouble, knows it's the look he used to give Dean before the harshest beatings, when he was most frustrated and angry.

John eyes him for a second and Dean's hands sweat, thinking that John _knows_ , he knows about the hickeys on his chest, about where his lips have been, about _Cas_ , but if he does know, he doesn't say, just stares at him and nods toward his truck. 

"Get in the truck, Dean." 

He freezes, blood whooshing in his ears in a dizzying beat, torn between blindly obeying and fighting back, because he only _just_ escaped. 

He forces himself to take an unsteady step back, because even though it's been a year, he still feels the same fear, the same nausea when it comes to disobeying his father. 

"Get in the truck," John growls and shoots him a warning look, "or I'll take you _and_ Sam."

And that- that freezes Dean in his tracks. 

Because in the eyes of the law, they're still minors, still his kids, still _supposed_ to be under his custody. They hadn't filed a report, hadn't gone to the police, hadn't done _jackshit_ and now Dean's cursing himself for it all. He'd been counting on John being too cowardly, his ego too hurt, for him to actually come looking for them. 

He could run into town right now and drag them away, kicking and screaming, and Bobby would have no legal claims to them, no way to save them.

"You'll leave Sam?" he hears himself ask, hates how his voice already sounds tired and defeated, like he hadn't spent an entire year away from the man. Like he's a scared little boy again. 

"Scout's honor," John grins, teeth sharp around his menacing smile. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bobby stride out of the house, Castiel hot on his heels, and he knows he has to go now, _now_ before they try to help. 

"Dean-" Bobby shouts, but Dean ignores him, walks fast to the truck idling in the driveway and doesn't know whether to sigh in relief or in disappointment when John climbs in not a second later.

He knows they're going to do something rash and stupid and make everything worse so he forces himself to make eye contact with Bobby, shakes his head minutely. 

As they drive away, tires kicking dirt up into the air, Dean makes out Bobby's silhouette, and then another - this one one chasing after the truck, legs pumping and yelling something. Cas. 

Dean wrenches his eyes from the scene and looks ahead. 

He can hear the crunch of gravel under rubber tires, can hear the frantic footsteps thundering to the front door and the hushed voices but he doesn't dare turn around, frozen with his eyes glued on the glinting metal held in John's hand. 

Dean feels nauseous, dizzy, because he knew John was a piece of shit, knew this man was willing to beat his eldest son black and blue, but not once did he think he was capable of murdering his own kid. 

"Dad," he croaks, voice shaky and pleading. 

He meets his father's gaze, taking in his dark eyes and bushy eyebrows, and he's flooded with memories of _before_. They're the eyes of the man who gave Dean piggyback rides around the yard, of the man who let him have pie and ice cream for breakfast on his 4th birthday, of the man who clapped and cheered like a madman the day Dean graduated from kindergarten. 

The memories are at complete odds with what came after, _after_ Mom's death and the bills and the abandonment of exasperated friends, when fists and alcohol and insults replaced laughter and affection. 

He knows, in his heart, that the eyes he's staring into are the same eyes his dad's always had, but he knows, in his mind, that the John Winchester in front of him is not that man, just like he isn't the Dean Winchester of before. 

This Dean doesn't want to die, wants to wake up tomorrow and help Cas check on his bees, wants to work on the Lincoln Continental Bobby picked up in some junkyard, wants to tease Sam about his long hair and be his big brother, if only for a little longer. 

This Dean isn't the same, because this Dean wants to _live_. 

"Son," John says, voice full of emotion, but not a single one Dean can make out. He sees something move in the corner of his eye, and he looks, taking his eyes of John for a second too long.

 _"DEAN_ ," Sam shouts suddenly, louder than Dean's ever heard before, and he wants to turn and see what the big fuss is, why Sammy's yelling so loud but he's distracted by the burning sensation in his stomach. It's _hot_ and wet and -

" _Dean_ ," Sam rushes out, dropping onto his knees next to him and Dean's brows furrow because - _when did he get on the floor?_

He looks around, feels Sam's sasquatch hand press on his stomach where the burning sensation is, and he can feel his brain whirling madly, rapidly, until it dawns on him.

" _Oh_ ," he breathes, realizing that it's his blood surrounding him, that there's a burning in his stomach from where the bullet entered. 

He looks down and swallows a hysterical laugh, because Dean's no doctor but he's sure that there's more blood on the outside than on the inside of his body, and that's _not_ _good_. Distantly, he's aware that Sam is talking, voice still high and cracking 'cause the kid's barely starting puberty, but he can't make out any of the words he's forming.

He blinks at Sam sluggishly, covering his hand with his own. Sam's a good kid. Dean hadn't known Mary very long but he _knows_ that she would've been proud of Sam, with his heart of gold and giant brain. _Dean's_ proud of him.

"Sammy," he slurs out, because things are getting blurrier and colder and Dean knew when Mary was gonna die - of course he'd know when _he_ was about to die.

Sam's face crumples up then, like he can read Dean's thoughts and can't bear them. But Dean knows, can _feel_ it in his heart, and he can't possibly go without Sam knowing that he loves him.

He feels like he did when he was four, scared to close his eyes, to so much as blink because if he does, the monsters will come back, but this time the only monster is death, and it's so much more real and frightening than it was before.

He knows death now, knows how silent and quick it is. Knows that it's a part of life, but not now - _please not_ ** _yet_** , he begs to a God he's not sure he believes in.

"'m so proud," Dean rasps, and feels a bitter smile creep onto his lips. Sam may not have grown up with parents but he grew up with Dean and Dean _needs_ Sam to hear this, needs him to know. Sam's saying something now, his words fast and jumbled but Dean can't understand them, knows that he doesn't have much time left anyway. 

The pain is blinding, almost worse than the white hot burning he feels in his guts, and he can hardly force himself to focus on Sam's face, much less his words.

Someone else drops down next to him, heavy and frantic, long fingers combing his hair, petting his face, touching wherever they can. They're speaking quickly, voice deep and lost and so worried that Dean wants to reach out and reassure him.

He doesn't need to look to know who it is. Cas. 

His Cas. With his sapphire eyes and knowing looks, his deep, beautiful laugh, his unblemished tanned skin and ability to infatuate and infuriate Dean in equal measures. 

" _Cas_." It's said quietly, Dean's voice hazy and wet but he hopes it sounds like he wants it to, like an endearment, like a reassurance, like an ' _I love you_ ' because Dean can't make himself say the words, can't leave Cas with that burden. 

He can hear the wail of sirens getting closer now, and he wants to sigh in relief but he's still bleeding, his blood _gushing_ over Sam's fingers, and everything is too hot, too cold, too painful, too _much_. 

"It'll be okay," Dean whispers, throat too raw to say anything louder, looking between the two of them. 

He has to believe it, because there's nothing else to believe. There's no alternative he wants to fucking consider, because things have to be okay, _they have to, for Sammy, for Cas_.

He wonders if this is how Mary felt, knowing that she was dying and wanting to reassure him, wanting to give him something to believe before she left him alone, at the mercy of a world bigger and crueler than him. 

"It'll be okay," Dean says again, and he feels a few tears slip out, running hot and fast past his eyes. For once, he lets himself feel, lets himself cry, because he knows that things will be _okay_ , he just won't be there to see them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed :)   
> Feel free to leave kudos/comments


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